Absence
by Nymue
Summary: [SERIES WIP] Resurrection has consequences that are only just beginning. AU season six.


TITLE: Of … ? 

SERIES: Absence

AUTHOR: Nymue

EMAIL: josette@aol.com

RATED: R

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Not yours. They belong to Joss, the WB, UPN and FOX. This is a not-for-profit fanfiction. No infringement is intended.

DISTRIBUTION: Ask and ye shall receive (unless, of course, you have prior permission to archive my work … if so, proceed).

PREVIOUS STORIES: http://lesanctuaire.dreamhost.com/absence

SUMMARY: Resurrection has consequences that are only just beginning.

SPOILERS: Everything up through "Plrtz Glrb" and "Bargaining"; AU afterwards.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: And now for something completely different … Readers of my short Darla ficlet, "Black Roses on Blood Red Velvet," will no doubt recognize some of the lines herein; that's to be expected, as that story was greatly responsible for this concept. Please note that this is NOT going to be B/A friendly -- Buffy's taking the path less traveled and she needs a companion equal to the journey. Femslash ahead. And no, I have not forgotten the rules of grammar; the tense shifts are deliberate. However, let it be known that this is a draft version and is yet unbeta'd.

FEEDBACK: Is much appreciated.

***

Promise me no promises,

So I will not promise you:

Keep we both our liberties,

Never false and never true:

Let us hold the die uncast,

Free to come as free to go:

For I cannot know your past,

And of mine what can you know?

You, so warm, may once have been

Warmer towards another one:

I, so cold, may once have seen

Sunlight, once have felt the sun:

Who shall show us if it was

Thus indeed in time of old?

Fades the image from the glass,

And the fortune is not told.

-- Christina Rossetti, from "Promises Like Pie-Crust"

***

The night is ever changing and fluid and … it hides a multitude of sins and yet still allows some to see far more clearly than in the light of day. Inky darkness broken only by starlight and moonglow has been the bane of humanity for eons whilst providing cover for those who cannot face Sol's harsh rays. Even in these times when it seems that humanity has conquered that darkness, truly they have not. They have not learned not to fear the deep; rather they have sought to illuminate that which they still fear. And they are right to fear what is shrouded, for in its embrace are those who are Other, those who have chosen or those who have been forced to walk unveiled … and who must turn away from the brilliance of sunlight to the luster of the moon.

She knows this. She has always known this, but until now she has always denied this because one cannot accept this and still walk the day unscathed. Now she must face her reality. Torn from her reward by well meaning friends, she emerged from the depths of the dark sleep a new creature capable of far more than anyone might have guessed. She marvels at their ignorance and foolishness; had she taught them nothing? Had they learned nothing from her? Did they not comprehend the enormity of that which they had undertaken? Most magick can be performed at any time, but some carried specific requirements as to the position of the sun or moon or the alignment of planets. But only the most forbidden magick required the fall of darkness. Did they not know that there was a reason such things were not to be done by the light of day? Did they not realize that it would make their sacrifices and transgressions that much harder to see? Of course, they did not. Despite all they had seen they were accustomed to walking beneath the light and they assumed that their sins would be consumed by the darkness in which they were committed. Foolish, to believe such things were obscured. Those for whom they were meant would see clearly enough … and recompense would be required.

Indeed, it had already begun though they saw it not. So pleased with themselves, so wrapped up in their success and their lives, they failed to see what was happening. They did not realize that the payment was already owed and that the tiny threads that snagged in life were their lives fabric beginning to unravel. Well, perhaps someone saw; Tara saw something, of that she was certain. Still, they went blindly through the days and nights without seeing the truth of the situation. She was not as she was, nor would she ever be; nothing returns in exactly the same form.

And so the honey-haired Slayer walks through the night that birthed her on her way to a place of solace.

The night lifts the masks they hide behind by day and shows them who they are and that which they are capable of rendering. Unfortunately for her they have not yet realized this peculiar truth; they do not see what they have done by day, but by night they shiver as a cool finger trails across a vulnerable soul. But she sees. She sees because she saw them in the darkness … she knows what they were unable to hide. Funny how the harsh light of day no longer reveals the truth and the once cloaking darkness no longer allows them to hide.

So she walks onward, her masks gone as she shows her true face. What was done cannot be undone, but she can reclaim the luscious feelings denied her by the sudden relocation. Oh, it will be different; earthly pleasures are always different and Buffy knew she would be lying to herself if she thought that she could recapture the wonders of the Otherworld. However, those memories of perfect bliss had been fading away with each passing moment since she emerged from the earth and were being replaced with a sensation and sense of utter clarity.

Which is why she felt no guilt in seeking solace. Yes, she had responsibilities but she also retained the right to relax and seek a new form of bliss even if its manner would not be approved of by the others. But then again, she no longer needed their permission or approval.

And as she felt the gritty metal chains snap between her fingers she acknowledged that this was a good thing. Had she still considered their opinions on her choice of leisure activity relevant she might have felt guilt or shame. She might even have become terribly confused and done something utterly stupid, like fucking Spike in a crypt.

Of course, she might still do so if the occasion were to arise. However, Buffy did not intend doing anything like that with Spike unless she wanted to; she would screw Spike when and if she wanted to screw Spike, but not for any other reason.

And at this particular moment in time she wanted nothing more than to seek her chosen form of succor.

The stone under her hands was cold and damp as she felt her way through the unused corridors, its texture reminding her of days past -- years past -- when she and her lover would hone her senses. He would blindfold her and then she would seek him out; a game, yes, one that not only allowed her to test her senses in a safe environment but also allowed them to strengthen their bond. Yet in the end it mattered not because … because he left her. And this house, which now carried the memories of those halcyon days in the cracks of the walls and the drafts of the corridors, was all that remained of the love she once thought was eternal.

Still, this is the place where she can find peace. Here among the memories and ghosts Buffy has found a way to achieve a tiny slice of earthly pleasure that leaves her with a feeling of contentment.

***

She slid her fingers along the doorjamb searching for the handle she knew was there and squeezed the brass fixture tightly as she pulled. The door opened slowly and with a groan, as if it had been years since anyone had sought entrance to the room beyond and not merely a few days before. Buffy slipped through the opening and carefully deposited her bag on the table that she knew was just to her right before lighting the candle that sat in the center of said table. The tiny flame illuminated a small, yet cavernous room that had only one purpose.

That purpose was set into the stone floor. A pool dominated the room; made of stone, it was circle eight feet in diameter and eight feet deep, and it was the answer to Buffy's current problems. She knelt beside the empty pool and twisted the discretely ornate fixtures until the bottom drains shut and steaming hot water began to flow from the taps and fill the pool once more, her mind shying away from the reasons the she was able to do this. Maybe Angel still maintained the house, or perhaps the utility companies of Sunnydale were as woefully inept as its police. Or maybe it was magic. She really didn't care.

All that did matter was the that the water was hot and the lights were low, and that the delectable bath oils of bergamot and jasmine scented the air in a luscious combination that allowed her to simply abandon the mortal world and enjoy a slice of earthly heaven. A contradiction in terms, perhaps, but as Buffy slid into the almost scalding water all she could feel was relief -- this was her time and the others need not impose on her here. No one knew of this place save those who had once lived within these confines and all but one had long since left for greener pastures. Or would that be redder rivers, she wondered idly as she allowed herself to sink beneath the surface. It didn't matter, she told herself; what they did now was of no consequence, and of the one who remained … well, she knew best how to handle Spike. Besides, it was unlikely he knew that this place had become Buffy's sanctuary.

Even if he did know or somehow discovered her little indulgence by mischance there were ways to deal with the situation. Her visits were rarely planned and he would need to follow her each time she left the house if he hoped to catch her out, which was unlikely as she had taken to visiting the pool by day as well, during those hours when her housemates were in school. If by some foul chance he happened to stumble upon her secret, well, there were spells that would take care of that quite easily. Willow would no doubt enjoy making Spike forget a few things.

As her head broke the surface and reentered the hazy air of the stone chamber Buffy shrugged and easily dismissed Spike from her mind. Of more consequence was the strange feeling she noticed of late, one that she had in the past attributed to Angel. A certain stirring in the blood and tug of her mind, combined with a budding desire for cool flesh, had often accompanied her meetings with ensouled vampire but lately the feeling had come with no thought of him. She searched her mind for the usual Angel related grief and found, to her surprise, nothing more than a slightly wistful memory of what had been in years past. There was no longing attached to this remembrance, no feeling that his absence from her life had caused her nearly insurmountable pain although she knew it had. Wasn't absence supposed to make the heart grow fonder? Had she not longed for him, pined for her lost lover until her death?

Perhaps that was her answer, Buffy realized as she stretched out on her back and allowed herself to float on a warm and wet pillow of comfort. Death had changed more than she had once believed possible -- why not this? She was no longer the girl, young woman or Slayer she had been; loosing heaven had changed something fundamental. Or had it? A few moments of contemplating the stones in the ceiling gave her mind a chance to reconcile with her emotions and together the two produced results both surprising and unsurprising. It wasn't so much that she had lost something fundamental, but rather she had regained something she had only been beginning to understand when she gave her beloved ones her gift. Her rebirth had awakened a long dormant aspect that she'd always refused to acknowledge, an aspect so primal and so full of power that she had been in denial about it ever since learning of its presence. Death, however, had given her a much longed for rest and rebirth -- for she now saw it as such -- and had allowed that aspect an ascendancy. She was still the woman she was, the Slayer she was, but now she was so much more.

Buffy rolled over and bent at the waist to immerse her legs in the water and when she did so the sudden warmth lapped at the center of her pleasure and she gasped, the tendrils of her connection to Angel flaring open. Her eyes widened and a new thought entered her mind as she slowly rotated her hips, her legs softly cutting through the water as she concentrated her efforts elsewhere. This feeling, this stirring of blood and building of desire … was it only Angel? Of course not, she belatedly realized as she turned once more and floated on her back as she inhaled the vapors rising off the water. A connection of blood, for that was what it surely must be, was not limited merely to two individuals but encompassed all those who shared that blood. But since her connection to the blood was more fragile, more limited, her connection was therefore limited to those around her former lover.

Spike she dismissed offhand; had she felt anything for the platinum-haired vampire she would have recognized it before, and all she felt when she envisaged his face was annoyance mixed with gratitude. Annoyance at his pursuit and gratitude that he had protected Dawn while she was dead. Buffy flicked water across the room as she considered the other possibility, that being Drusilla; a frown marred her features and she shook her head ever so slightly. No, not Drusilla. The mad vampire barely registered any emotion other than annoyance, but the feeling did seem closer somehow. Buffy sighed as her eyes slid shut in frustration, her inability to pinpoint the deviation in the connection causing her to grow tense and upset when she should have been relaxing.

Who could it be? She had eliminated Angel and the two others of his lineage she had known and she knew that he had destroyed another of his Childer two years prior. Who else was left? The Master? A chuckle emerged from Buffy's mouth as she remembered the vampire that had ended her life the first time -- by leaving her to drown -- and she laughed at the irony. Here she was floating in water after her death and thinking about the Master as the reason she felt the connection tremble and flare every so often. Why not, she smirked. After all, if she could be resurrected …

Wait.

Resurrection.

A series of jumbled images danced across her mindscape, memories of encounters and a once treasured conversation slowly coalescing into a name. "Darla," she whispered.

The instant she murmured the name an image of the flaxen-haired vampiress emerged from her mind, but it was not the Darla she remembered. Gone were the fluffy layers and Catholic schoolgirl uniform and in its place was the image of a suavely dressed woman with silky hair who seemed to feel the same confusion and anger as Buffy. Shudders wracked her body as she watched the figure turn and walk towards a bottle on the table that appeared in her mind, icy heat trailing over her flesh as the image sipped from a glass she had raised to her lips.

"Darla," she whispered again.

This time the image seemed to turn towards her, as if she could hear her name being called. Buffy shivered in desire as she imagined the other woman's body sliding against her own, mouths brushing and suckling as hands caressed and teased, and she barely noticed as her hand slid between her legs. All she could envisage, all she knew, was how wonderful the feel of the vampiress' touch would be to her heated flesh. They were twined together on a bed of silk and stone, honey and flaxen tresses mingling on a pillow of scarlet as Darla's mouth trailed down the column of her neck, her teeth delicately breaking through the tender flesh.

This had been the missing link. This was why her blood connection was flaring and raising her blood to a boil. This was why her body was trembling and shaking, why pleasure was swirling throughout her body as it had not since long before her death and rebirth. This was why she felt herself falling … falling …

Buffy screamed as ecstasy flooded her being with an onslaught of sensual delight that destroyed her ability to think. Like the foam-topped waterspout cast headlong in the sea of desire a poet once wrote about, she fell and finally sank into the furious waters of rapture. Tremors shuddered over her body as she felt herself thrown from the top of a vast cliff into sea of continually cresting waves that broke over her as surely as did her release. Hot primal need flared deep within her core as she once again approached the pinnacle of her desire, and as she tumbled from the heights of sheer ecstasy in a blazing ball of fire she finally felt alive and whole once more.

Pleasure and anguished passed from her as Buffy sluggishly grasped the side of the pool to lift herself out of the cooling water, and she lay sprawled along the edge as the image of her phantom lover faded from view. The little death … the first since she emerged from the earth … she understood now what it meant, why it was called so …

It was life out of death.

"Darla … "

***

Magick is always spoken in threes.

Darla had known this for more years than she could count and yet the magnitude of this simple little fact never ceased to amaze her. Even those things which were not precisely magick, per say, became something more than the sum of their parts when spoken thrice.

Which was why the glass of blood red cabernet slipped from her fingers as the air whispered her name. It was barely a murmur, almost an echo from centuries past, a wisp of memory that called forth an image of Francesca, Italian courtesan and her once-lover. A century before the birth of boy named Liam and the glorious demon Angelus there was Francesca, a glorious beauty with obsidian orbs and flesh as pale as her own. For nearly a decade they had reveled in decadence and darkness, relishing the power they wielded over foolish mortal men who sought to claim superiority. Years spent honing her skills both among mortals and within her Master's court, where she stood at his side without challenge through her cunning and ambition.

'Darla … '

Light played over flaxen hair and silken skin as Darla's fingers swirled the velvet sweetness in the crystal goblet. No, this was not Francesca calling her from beyond the grave. This was something else, something that made her blood boil and the nebulous threads of family tremble with a new awareness. So what was it? What was this new and inviting feeling that had somehow come into existence while she lingered within the confines of her sanctuary … the closeted, paneled, draped room where no one entered without her permission. The control of her life, so elusive for so long, was once more hers to command. Except, of course, for memory, which has its own agenda and proceeds to lock and unlock its vaults with no respect for her sanity.

The present is never the past, she realized with a start as she glimpsed scenes long dead and once more felt sensations better left buried. Yet, the past is ever alive in her and her Line, for it is her Line now … but it's not about the right and the wrong, idiot Gypsies or a thieving cheerleader ...

It isn't the betrayal that keeps you up on the cold, lonely nights … it's the memory.

The feel of velvet on bare skin, scent of roses and the taste of blood from a fresh kill as her mate joins her in ecstasy …

How the present mocks the past.

How simple this would be if she could simply turn off the memories, how much more she could accomplish. Instead hazy, languorous visions of long ago haunt her waking moments like the finest wine, and tumultuous raptures in beds now in disrepair flit through the dreamscape so quickly that she is left with only the barest trace of their presence, like a hint of perfume in a ballroom of old. Yet, she knows that once these were the sharpest and joyous of times.

Like the feel of the moist petals against her skin as the warm, perfumed water laps against the side of the porcelain tub … how the firelight adds shadows as her darling boy pulls the velvet gown across her shoulders … the taste of their shared blood still in her mouth as it strums through her veins …

Oh, but how she wishes. Wishes for it stop and to continue … to stop so that she can still pretend she plans the way to regain the reality of those lost nights … to continue so that she is reminded of why she would even bother. And if wishes were horses, she acknowledges, she would ride the most glorious beast in the stable …

Or would she?

A tiny wrinkled furrowed her brow as she pondered her predicament. Did she wish to recover her glorious beast? Or was it simply the longing for years past, the multitude of decades that allowed her to lose herself in another and so forget that which she had treasured?

'Darla … '

The fire in her veins wasn't her once darling boy, of that she was certain. It had ceased to be him on that night she had put a sword through the body she had once loved, an act she now realized as richly symbolic. The severance of their ties to one another, at least so far as that was possible. Was it perhaps Drusilla, the madwoman who had brought her back to the comfort of reality? No, not the far seeing lunatic who had seen deeper into what remained of her soul than the others. Nor was it Spike, that impetuous and arrogant offspring of Drusilla's, the mistake she would have rectified had he not been so useful on occasion. Rather a pity I didn't remove him, she reflected; he's turned out to be more trouble than he's worth. Who, then, was responsible for the burning beneath her flesh? Angelus' obsessive first Childe had been destroyed by the hands that wrought him mere months before her rebirth, which only left her Master …

Was it possible? Why not, she laughed bitterly. If I could be resurrected why not he? And it would certainly explain the sudden memory of Francesca …

Wait.

Resurrection.

There had been another such occurrence recently, had there not? Whispers of the blackest of magic emanated from the Hellmouth and ricocheted throughout the underworld, voices lowered as they tremblingly spoke the word they feared. "Slayer," they whispered in tones of both fright and respect. Raised from the dead. A phoenix reborn from its ashes.

Resurrected.

An image filled her mind but it wasn't of the silly little cheerleader she remembered, nor was it the photographs filched from the records of Wolfram and Hart. Dark honey colored tresses and pale skin suffused with heat reclined on a sheet of black water, her eyes full of lust and desire, and Darla felt a growl escape her lips as the missing threads of the connection clicked into place. A need so overpowering and primal consumed her in less than a split second as she felt herself fall back onto the fireside chaise, its building crescendo overwhelming her senses.

She did not feel the silk of her dress or the velvet of the upholstery, only soft damp skin. She heard not the crackling of the fire but the roaring rush of her lover's blood. She smelled not burning wood and wine-drenched blood but jasmine, bergamot and power exploding into the sheerest ecstasy imaginable.

'Darla … '

She opened her eyes to her darkened room to find that the taste of Slayer's blood lingered ephemerally on her lips, a phantom presence that promised a far more potent reality. The ghostly scent of jasmine taunted her as she arched back and she could still feel the supple flesh beneath her if she concentrated …

Darla's lips curved into a decidedly wicked smile as she contemplated the newest wrinkle in her reality.

"This has … potential."

END


End file.
